


Nightmare

by ashal_telsu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Horror, I don't really want to trigger anyone so I'll tag it to be safe, Let's Write Sherlock, M/M, Mild Gore, Not much but it's there, challenge 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashal_telsu/pseuds/ashal_telsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for challenge six on Let's write Sherlock: Write a fic in which a character of your choice faces his or her biggest, most primal fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead.

An empty forest. The sound of an howl echoing through the darkness. Deep fog. Roots hidden in the ground. Sherlock runs, runs as fast as he can. He doesn't know whether he is running from something or if he is chasing something. He knows that he has to reach the mansion. How did he get here in the first place? He can't remember. But something- no, someone is missing. His heart beats loudly, and he is afraid that the creatures can hear him, panting and running. His nose catches a scent, and he almost vomits. Then there is a gunshot. Sherlock stands still.

One second of silence.

Two.

Three.

"Sherlock!"

And Sherlock remembers. John. He has to find John, has to save him from the horror. Sherlock turns to the direction the sound came from. Runs faster. He trips, his head hits a rock. Ignore the pain, find John. His brain starts to function again, now that he knows what to do. He is running, but it feels like his feet are glued to the floor, he can't go on. Desperate. Sherlock tries to remember how they got here, but his entire past is a gaping hole in his head. His mind palace- destroyed, reduced to a pile of rocks. But he doesn't care, he has to find John.

Then the scenery changes. The forest clears, and he reaches a cliff. The sea is raging, but he jumps in nevertheless. Swims towards the horizon. The waves threaten to pull him under. They do. His lung fills with salt water, but he can't die, not before he finds John. He swims up again. John. He coughs a few times and goes on. John. The same sound as before, but now it is louder, the sound of a cannon bellowing through the air. John.

"Sherlock!"

John. Sherlock swims faster, but his arms are tired. He is cold. Come, the ocean says, come to me. Sleep. You are safe here, in my arms. Sherlock listens and lets himself sink. He lets go. The ocean keeps its promise. Warm water surrounds him, lulls him to sleep. His eyes close.

"Sherlock!"

No. He jolts awake. He can't fall asleep, he has to find John. An isle appears before him, and he leaves the water, starts running again. He reaches a mountain. He knows that John is at the top, and he is in danger. Sherlock starts to climb. The rock is razor-sharp and cuts into his hands, his bare feet. When did he lose his shoes? Unimportant. John. Find John. The mountain moves, tries to shake him off, but Sherlock holds on. Finally, he reaches the top.

His vision goes black.

Sherlock is in the forest again, but he is on a clearing. In the middle, there is John. But John is in danger. There are two poles, and John is in between them, four chains and four cuffs holding him above the ground, his limbs splayed into all four directions. His clothes are ragged and soaked with blood. Sherlock tries to run to him, but there is a barrier between them, invisible but impenetrable. There is a shrill sound, and will animals are coming from all directions, attacking John. John cries in agony, they are ripping out pieces of his flesh, blood gushing from his wounds. Sherlock can taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. But he can't move.

The animals retreat, as if called back, but they leave John hurt as he his. John's eyes snap open and his blue eyes stare in Sherlock's. There is helplessness in them, and hatred.

A gunshot. The bullet hits John's shoulder, the right one. Gunshot. John's foot. More gunshots, coming from around them. John's chest. Stomach. Throat. Head. Even more blood is leaving John's body, staining the moist grass below him. John's body goes limp. A lightning bolt hits John, and Sherlock can smell burnt tissue.

The poles and the chains and the cuffs vanish, and John falls to the floor, lifeless. Sherlock runs to him, why didn't his legs work before. He falls to his knees next to John, and cradles his head on his lap. Blue eyes stare up into nothing, and all the life is gone from them. One tear falls from Sherlock's eye on John's nose. His friend is dead.

"JOHN!"

 


	2. Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up.

John jolts awake in his bed when Sherlock screams his name downstairs. He sounds hurt, so hurt, and it pains him physically. He jumps down the stairs in nothing but his grey, washed-out t-shirt and his boxers. He slowly opens the door to Sherlock's room, where Sherlock is sitting upright in his bed, his pyjamas and sheets soaked with sweat. His eyes are empty. The detective is panting, and his expression is one of pure horror. John walks over to him, sitting down before him on the edge of the bed. "Sherlock?" he asks cautiously. His flatmate looks at him, as if he was just now registering that John entered the room, as if he was seeing a ghost.

"God, John" he sobs and falters. John pulls him into his arms, his hands stroking soothing circles into Sherlock's back.

"It was just a dream, Sherlock. You are at home. And I am here, do you hear? I am here. Do you want to tell me what the dream was about? It might help to talk about it."

"John… I- I was in a forest, and I was trying to find you but I couldn't and then there was the sea and the voices tried to lure me under but I had to find you and then then there was a mountain and I had to climb on top because you were there and then- and then-" Sherlock buries his head in the crook of John's neck and shudders.

By instinct, John presses a soft kiss to the mop of black curls, just as he always did when Harry had come to him after a nightmare. "It's alright, Sherlock. Shh… You don't have to tell me. Come on, I'll make you a cuppa." John pulls back to stand up, but Sherlock fists his hands in John's t-shirt, holding him tight.

"No! Don't go. Stay." Sherlock demands, fighting the quivers in his voice. "Suddenly, we were at a clearing, you were in the middle of it, suspended by chains. I tried to reach you, but my feet wouldn't move. And then there were animals, and they were ripping you apart, god, your screams, and then the animals went away and there were gunshots, hitting you in all the lethal spots and oh god, John, all the blood, there was blood everywhere, and then, as if it wasn't enough already, you were hit by a lightning bolt and fell to the floor. I ran to you, but I was too late. You were already dead, and I couldn't save you. Dead." Sherlock starts to cry, tears dampening John's t-shirt.

John takes Sherlock's face in his hands, making him look at him. "Sherlock, look here. I am alive. Breathing, and more alive than ever. It was just a dream." And with that, John leans closer until their lips touch so softly.

Sherlock gasps in surprise, but he needs this, he needs proof that John is alive. And how alive the blogger is. Sherlock kisses back, their tongues dancing together in their mouths. He is mapping out every centimetre of John's mouth, remembering the way he feels and tastes.

"Sherlock…" John whispers, and breaks their kiss to bring their foreheads together. He tugs at Sherlock's pyjama top, and  Sherlock takes it off. "Come on, let's get you out of those before you catch a cold."

Sherlock chuckles. "Because that is the only reason you want them off." He smirks and kisses John again, pulling John's t-shirt up. "I think we have to get rid of your clothes as well, John, you have to warm me." They giggle in unison.

"Oh, yes, Sherlock, clever thinking there. Basic survival strategy, I am proud of you." In a mess of limbs and clothes and bed sheets, they eventually manage to both get naked. John crowds his flatmate onto the bed, covering him with his body. Their erections slide together and John moans softly while Sherlock whimpers. Words become obsolete, the only sounds escaping from their mouths are unintelligible sounds and each other's names as they both rock their hips, trying to get as much of the beautiful friction as possible. John brings his hand down in between them and takes them both in his hand, starting to pump slow but soon his pace quickens.

Sherlock is panting, shivering. "God, John, don't stop, don't you dare to stop" he whispers. He grabs John's shoulders and sucks a red mark on his throat that will show everyone that they belong together. He comes with a shout, biting down on a muscular shoulder as the waves of pleasure overtake him.

The pain from his shoulder sends John over the edge as Sherlock pulls him with him, and they come between them, leaving a sticky mess. John collapses on top of the detective, but kisses him with a smirk. "Nightmare gone, Sherlock?" he asks softly, cleaning them with his shirt, and cuddles up against him.

Sherlock nods and kisses back, pulling the blanket over them. "Thank you. And John-" he entwines their fingers, "stay."

"Not leaving you" John answers, drifting to sleep. "'Night, Sherlock."

Sherlock tries to keep his eyes open, he wants to watch the even rise and fall of John's chest, but his eyelids are heavy. "Goodnight, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't know how to resolve the plot, so I made it porn, and not even good one. But thanks for reading this.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, sorry for the ending, but I'll post the second part tomorrow (or the day after that). Hope you like it, though. Don't forget to comment!


End file.
